


It's All In The Details

by Aichi



Category: Cardfight!! Vanguard
Genre: Bondage, Dragons, F/M, Femdom, Muzzles, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 19:06:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16771057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aichi/pseuds/Aichi
Summary: Luard is the first Dragwizard to successfully complete a full-body shift. Morfessa is, of course, curious about said body. That's definitely what this is about.





	It's All In The Details

**Author's Note:**

> This is just PWP basically I'm not fooling anyone. Also my first time writing Explicit Genital Action in probably about eight years, so. It's not great. There's not even any penetrative sex in here in case anyone came for that.
> 
> Anyway, Luard is in Dragabyss form in case that doesn't come across well. Don't think about the lore implications too hard. It's PWP.

“It really is impressive how long you’re able to maintain this shape,” Morfessa says. “I would never have imagined that any of us could have made such advancements so quickly.”

_Yeah, well, that’s the Deity of Destruction for you_ , Luard wants to say, somewhat bitterly, but of course, the magically-enhanced leather muzzle strapped around his jaws puts a stop to _that_. He settles for a disgruntled huff instead, and the resulting rush of hot air from his nostrils threatens to knock Morfessa’s hat off her head. Catching it effortlessly, she steadies it with one hand while offering him a pat on the exposed end of his snout with the other.

“Easy,” she says, rubbing his scales in a motion that’s gentle and yet commanding at the same time, “It’s not a bad thing. I know you never asked for this kind of power. I’m simply impressed at your ability to control it; it should have been beyond even the most skilled of us, and yet, here you are.”

_And yet, I’m still tied up_ , he thinks, although he knows _that_ at least has nothing to do with his control or lack thereof – it’s just how Morfessa is. They both know that her “scientific inspection” of his fully dragshifted form is only really half that, and that the restraints wouldn’t really do much in the event he _did_ lose control again, but the pretense is enough to let Luard pretend he didn’t really agree to be collared and muzzled and chained to the ground by his ankles just for _fun_. He doesn’t have to admit that the chains are actually comforting, in a way, even though they’re next to useless.

With a quiet, contemplative hum, Morfessa trails her hand across the muzzle. Luard flinches a little as her fingers meet the scales of his neck, her light touch still enough to be embarrassingly intimate when the power buzzing through him amplifies every sense tenfold. He shifts nervously within the few inches of leeway that his ankle chains allow him, and she laughs, offering him a firm pat on the side of the neck which quite frankly only makes him feel even warmer with embarrassment, _especially_ considering the fact that he’s more than twice her size and yet she _still_ manages to be the one in control. For all she’s praising his abilities, his current form still feels like nothing in comparison to her.

“Now be a good boy and stay still,” she tells him, an audible smirk in her voice leaving no room for argument even if he could – or wanted to. “I want to get a good look at you.”

Heels clicking against the hard stone floor as she moves, she circles around his massive body, fingers following the ridges of his neck and passing over the thick, metal-studded leather collar secured around it before she continues down his back. The undersides of his scales seem to heat up everywhere she goes, like she’s leaving some kind of invisible mark on him, and as soon as she leaves his line of sight, Luard lets his eyes fall shut, lets himself wallow in the waves that her touch makes throughout his body.

“Incredible,” she murmurs, more to herself than to him. “A quadruped, too... I never would have thought...”

As she traces her way slowly past his shoulder, he finds himself leaning ever-so-slightly into her touch, welcoming the warm spark that her movements ignite inside him. Instinctively, he folds his wings securely against his sides to give her room to move by, and she offers the leading edge of the nearest one a gentle rub in reward for his silent deference. The soft back-and forth caress ripples through him, stirring up the mana in his chest and only making everything more sensitive, and an attempt to release his tension with a quiet sigh only succeeds in creating a nervous shudder.

“Shhh...”

Her hand moves lower, joined now by her other one as she strokes the softer scales leading towards his belly in a motion that only exacerbates the whirlpool of feelings forming inside him and tugging at his stomach, twisting it into a knot. Despite the tenseness in his body, his legs suddenly feel weak, like they could give out under him at any moment, and he whines softly through his muzzle.

“You’re very responsive,” Morfessa half-purrs, and there’s an edge to her voice that could either be scientific curiosity or sadism – or both. Probably both. “You’re shaking, you know.”

Luard snorts, in a way that was _meant_ to sound dismissive but just comes out weak and desperate.

“Uh huh,” she says, as if she’s actually responding to something he said. “So,” she adds, after a moment, in a way that very clearly implies both what she actually means and also that she already knows the answer, “Where should I go from here, hmm?”

Despite the fact that he knew it was coming, Luard is pretty sure he can feel his heart stop for a second, and in that moment becomes extremely, painfully aware of the heat growing between his hind legs.

“I see,” she laughs, no doubt feeling the shock ripple through his scales. “Well, if you’re a good boy, maybe I’ll think about it, alright?” She starts stroking him again as she speaks, working her fingers carefully but firmly into the dips between scales, tracing around them before moving on to another, over and over until the entire area is buzzing with the sensation.

In lieu of any other method of communication, Luard huffs and paws at the ground with as much movement as his chains and still-quivering legs will allow. He hadn’t realized how _frustrating_ it would be to not be able to speak, to ask her to move, or press harder, or do _something_ other than touch him so _infuriatingly_ softly and not even in the right _place_.

All it earns him is a sharp smack on the flank. “I said, _if you’re good_. Maybe I should restrain you a little more, just to be sure?”

She lets the words hang in the air, their weight pressing down on Luard’s shoulders, and he finds himself dipping his head slowly, nodding without even thinking about it – his mind already starting to entangle itself in images of how exactly she could _do that_ , perhaps with his forepaws pulled back and bound to the hind ones, forcing his rear up, or maybe flipped on his back with his ankles secured to the floor again, or his entire body held down tight as a metal ring forces his jaw open and she can freely and safely put a hand inside to– well, to admire his dragshifted teeth, _yeah, that_ , and–

The sound of her heels approaching his head drags him back to reality, and he _whines_ again, shaking the thoughts off, forcing himself to stand at attention – _in more ways than one,_ part of his brain unhelpfully supplies – as she re-enters his line of sight.

Stopping for a moment, she looks him up and down as if pondering something, and he resists the urge to let out an impatient growl. _If you’re good_ , she’d said. And even though resistance to being told what to do comes as a default reaction, obedience _is_ good, he reasons. As long as he just _obeys,_ he won’t hurt her or the other Dragwizards or anyone else again, and he’ll be safe from himself, and maybe he can finally _relax_ , and maybe Morfessa will be _proud of him_ – and maybe she’ll finally touch him, he adds hastily, propping that thought on top of the others before he can dwell on them too much.

“Hmm. Head down,” Morfessa orders, sharply but not unkindly, thankfully saving Luard from his own brain. He follows the order before he can start pondering again, hunching his shoulders down and bowing his head until he’s the one looking up at her instead of the other way around. She nods, approving, and the warm glow of her smile dispels a little of the tension in his body.

Unfortunately, the heel she lifts and presses down on top of his snout has the exact opposite effect on the tightness still growing between his legs. Eyes widening, he looks up at her with something rapidly approaching desperation, a vague attempt at words foiled once again by his muzzle.

“All the way down, please.” She puts her weight into the offending foot, heel biting painfully into the soft scales of his snout as he sinks to the floor under the pressure. The pain goes _straight_ to that problem area between his legs, and the knowledge that her weight isn’t really enough to push him down, that he’s _letting_ it happen only makes everything worse. Or better. One of those. He wishes he had enough freedom to at least press his thighs together, to feel _anything_ down there.

As his throat meets the floor and she removes her foot, satisfied, something _snaps_ into place beneath him.

Luard yelps – muffled again, of course – and tries to draw back, to figure out what the noise was, only to find he _can’t move_. With a confused whine, he pulls again, claws scrabbling against the ground, but the collar around his neck holds his head in place, digging unforgivingly into his scales with each attempt. It takes another moment or two of fruitless struggling before he realizes the reason – it’s magically bolted to the ground the same way his ankle chains are, albeit with absolutely no slack, keeping his throat and lower jaw pressed to the floor and forcing his shoulders to hold their current hunched position. _Like a_ _predator_ _about to_ _pounce_ , he thinks, except obviously he’s not going anywhere, and absolutely nothing about it feels powerful or predatory.

Tail twitching nervously, he can do nothing but eye Morfessa as she starts to circle him again, if anything the real predator in this scenario. Even wearing such a heavy cloak and walking in heels higher than his own, she carries herself with grace and confidence, and now more than ever he can feel the overwhelming sense of _control_ that she exerts, even in spite of his current physical size and strength and the ever-present world-ending power brewing inside him. Now, the feeling of being one with such a giant, unstoppable, destructive force seems worlds away, practically impossible even, and even if it probably isn’t true, he lets himself relax into the idea that he could never become something like that again. He can’t even crane his neck to follow Morfessa as she moves around his side.

A sudden firm slap on his haunch startles him again.

“Up.”

She leaves him no time to process his surprise, delivering a second slap when he doesn’t move immediately. It doesn’t _hurt_ , per se, but the casual nature with which she pushes him around is, once again, going _right_ towards building that uncomfortable pressure between his thighs, and he can’t help but let out a soft whine as he obeys, the idea of doing otherwise barely even occurring to him at this point.

Planting his feet firmly on the ground, he slowly lifts his hips as far as his position will allow, resisting the sudden urge to tuck his tail between his legs and trying not to think too hard about the idea of _presenting_ for her. The pose is surprisingly difficult to hold, and he can already feel his legs starting to quiver after only a few seconds, but his skin still tingles with the memory of her striking him, and he lets that sensation hold him, keep him upright.

“You _are_ a good boy,” she murmurs, her hand trailing towards his inner thigh, _dangerously_ close now. “Now, let’s see here...” As she trails off, she steps past his leg to stand directly _under_ his belly, and he doesn’t even have time to feel vulnerable thanks to that because her fingers are already carefully following a ridge of scales that leads directly to– “Ah, here we are. Anatomically correct, I see. Well done.”

She trails a finger alongside the slit between his legs, and Luard feels significantly more in danger of spontaneously catching fire than he ever has during any of his countless reckless lab experiments.

“Come on,” she says, gently, “out you come.”

Luard squeezes his eyes shut as she teases back along his slit again, an involuntary whine humming in his throat as her touch starts to finally, _finally_ stir something inside his body. Pressing harder into the soft scales on either side, she begins to knead at him, the friction and pressure rolling into him like waves as his spine arches in near-immediate desperation.

He practically _keens_ as she slips a finger inside, and then another, and then two more from the other hand, her lower body temperature uncomfortable for only a few moments before she begins to spread him open and suddenly his own heat is overwhelming again and he doesn’t know how _she can stand it,_ and it feels _incredible_ even with how small she is, feels like he’s going to be overtaken just by this, before she can even get to–

“Theeere it is.”

Something about the casual, curious tone makes him burn even more, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it when one of her hands is already sliding _halfway into him_ to meet his– his cock, to finally, almost agonizingly coax the usually-internal organ out of its slit. Already partially hard within him, it near instantly fully stiffens under her touch, her fingers curling as much as they can around it to cup it as it extends, too large for her to fully encompass even with both hands. Gut practically twisting itself in knots, and suddenly feeling more embarrassingly exposed than ever, he lets out something halfway between a snort and a sob.

Once again, she starts exploring him with both hands, fingertips inquisitively tracing the thick, rapidly-hardening ridges encircling his shaft that he knows from his anatomical studies – which were to facilitate ease of transformation, and definitely not any other kind of curiosity – are usually to ensure the organ remains locked into its recipient when required. Now, though, his arousal is laid torturously bare, and he can practically _sense_ her smirk as he twitches in response to her long-awaited touch. Breath coming in short, desperate huffs, it takes everything he has just to keep himself upright, almost as though all the heat and energy and mana in his entire body is pouring into the skin beneath her fingers as they trail up, and down, and up again, _just_ enough to render him completely unable to focus on anything else but not enough for him to get any real pleasure.

It barely occurs to him that he should probably be embarrassed by the fact that he wishes he could _beg_.

After what feels like _forever_ , she apparently finally sees fit to touch him _properly_ , a firm hand rubbing down his length and back again, working fingers into the skin with an intensity that definitely should have hurt if he wasn’t in this form. Hips shifting a little, he rocks into her touch, his cock practically searing with built-up pressure as she continues massaging it, teasing the sensitive areas in between the ridges as she works back and forth.

Hands that small _definitely_ shouldn’t be enough to get him off alone, and yet between her touch and her indomitable _presence_ and the restrictive-yet-oddly-freeing restraints and his own pure _need_ , he can feel himself getting close already. Too close. Part of him wishes he could hold back, last longer, maybe impress her more, but another part urges him on in case she doesn’t even give him the chance. He wouldn’t put it past her, with how much she apparently loves making him squirm.

“Go on,” she says, his hips jerking eagerly at the sound of her voice, “Let go.”

Only a second later, he does, dick twitching in desperation and claws scraping uselessly at stone as a wave of fire crashes over him, an attempted roar becoming a muffled moan as he finally comes. A hand on the underside of his shaft steadies it as his hips jolt forward, testing the limits of his ankle restraints as he violently, gratefully empties himself, all of his pent-up pressure released at last. The muscles around his hyper-sensitive slit contract rhythmically, again and again, milking every last drop of come out of him as his whole body shudders with the effort.

He’s almost dizzy by the time his body eventually stops spasming, and part of him dimly thinks that it’s a miracle he managed to maintain his form. Unable to hold them up any longer, he lets his hips sink until his entire body collapses to the floor, too tired to really care about the mess under his belly.

“Well, safe to say your replication of the reproductive organs and processes is accurate. You’ve done an excellent job. I’m proud of you.”

_What, am I being graded or something?_ he wants to quip back, but he’s not sure he has the strength to open his mouth even if he wasn’t muzzled.

The clicking of heels signals Morfessa approaching his head again, and it takes almost everything he has just to lift his gaze to meet hers. She rewards him with a teasing, but surprisingly kind smile, and he can’t help but notice she seems to have somehow avoided getting any of his– er, _fluids_ on her cloak. Of course.

“You can move, you know,” she tells him, after a minute, and he realizes as he weakly lifts his head that he can, that his restraints have already been magically unlocked.

Regardless, Luard lets his head fall back to the ground, drowsily channelling what little mana he has left into preventing any unceremonious shifts back into his true form. Carefully tucking her cloak out of the way, Morfessa crouches next to him, offering a soft pat to the side of the neck that he gratefully leans into.

“I’ll leave this on for a little while longer.” She taps at his muzzle, and he whines quietly in response. “You can rest for a bit. You’ve earned it.”

Then she smirks, and despite Luard’s exhaustion, a warning alarm goes off inside him.

“But after you change back, you’d better get to work cleaning up that mess.”

**Author's Note:**

> Why do my fics always start out Kinda Decent and then degenerate into word vomit.
> 
> Anyway, as usual, please come badger me on twitter @ cosmowreath and make me write more often.


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